was it the brain 
parted like fish scales 
from the body — found alone in a rowboat somewhere
                            nearer the horizon than the city —
was it the body
gutted like mountains
by men’s hands — closer to claws of brown bears
                            still lingering on city streets despite extinction —
was it the skin
bitten like butter
by broken teeth — jagged like cliffsides reminding the bearer
                              of the ocean just beneath them —
was it the eyes
glowing like coal mines
with lighter flame — licked upwards with the resurgence of diesel
                                  every tractor bites its own arse with flames —
was it the lips
swollen like peaches thumbed
by heavy handers — those that carry hammers on their hips 
                                  some builder’s imitation of a cowboy —
was it the cheeks
reddened like bruises 
from door handles — and nurses find these every day on eyes,
                                   nose, collar, wonder how they protect from this ‘door’ —
was it the sun
beams like butter
melted on toast — they hiss in the light and their teeth meet
                               through the blend of flour, yeast, tears, old milk —
was it the pavement
rising up like a rebellion
against the blood — every day they find another pint splashed over
                                 some dead seagull and gift it to the sea —
was it this city
concrete like sandcastles
precariously balances — underneath its feet if you lifted this city you’d find
                                        an island made of sinking sand and anger —
beside an ocean
leaping upwards like a spider
spray crashing — when drops fall on my lips i lick the salt away
                             and wonder why i never stop to drink the atlantic dry —
against this old port
                         — i grew up close enough to the ocean to dream 
                         that one day i might sit on a wave like a gull and sing to all the fish, 
                         hoping that they might one day leap willingly to me, 
                         silver scales glistening like swords. yes, i grew up close enough 
                         to the ocean to know that the world can be separated into drowning 
                         and flying and long have i decided that i’d much rather fly. my memory 
                         of this place i have to leave comes out in segments, like oranges, 
                         like sunbeams, like butter, like skin. one day, 
                         someone will ask me about the ocean and i will peel off my disguise and 
                         flood their living room —
i run fast
feet like fins
carrying me up — up up up and away  
                              as though on the crest of a glistening wave —